


Good Things Can Come Out of Bad Situations

by EastAustralianCurrent (orphan_account)



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: Car Accidents, Charles Xavier has a Ph.D in Adorable, Erik is Crushing Harder than a 12-year Old Girl, First Meetings, Hospitalization, M/M, Motorcycles, Muffins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-09
Updated: 2016-09-09
Packaged: 2018-08-14 00:35:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7992079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/EastAustralianCurrent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Only Charles can get a date out of a motorcycle crash.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good Things Can Come Out of Bad Situations

**Author's Note:**

> Idea came from this list of prompts: http://toxixpumpkin.tumblr.com/post/101021230029/awkward-first-meetings-aus
> 
> All my knowledge about medical stuff came from the internet so I apologize ahead of time for the inaccuracies.

“Shit. Are you alright? Please tell me you’re alright. I’m so sorry. Oh, god, don’t sit up.”

There’s a hand pushing into the center of Charles’s chest. He frowns at it while his brain scrambles to pick up the pieces of a shattered memory. Wasn’t he in a hurry? But what for?

“Jesus. You’re _bleeding_. Okay, lie down. I’m _really_ sorry. I was running late and I wasn’t paying attention…”

The man standing above Charles seems to be babbling about something urgent but Charles can’t muster the energy to actually decipher the words spilling out of his mouth. Charles smiles as the man’s face dances in and out of shadows. It’s quite a nice face, really. He stretches an arm out to touch it but finds that his hand is already occupied. It appears to be holding a binder. A blindingly-blue binder. Shit.

Everything hits Charles like a freight train. Or a motorcycle. “Fuck.” He groans and stumbles to his feet before the man can stop him. The ground doesn’t seem as though it’s decided whether or not it’s solid or liquid so Charles leans against a bright red motorcycle as his thoughts start clicking back into place.

“Did you just hit me with your _motorcycle?_ ”

“I’m sorry! I was running late and I was thinking about other things—”

“Shut up.” The man’s mouth snaps closed. “Do you think you can give me a ride?”

“Are you _insane?_ I just _ran you over_.”

Charles holds up a hand to silence the man. “Listen. I have a really important test to take so _please_ do not waste _any_ time.” Charles swiftly returns his hand to brace against the motorcycle as the ground lurches again.

“You need to go to the _hospital_. You can’t even stand up straight.”

“I’m perfectly fine,” Charles retorts.

“How many fingers am I holing up?”

Charles blinks at the man’s hands before shaking his head exasperatedly. The ground attempts a barrel roll. “I don’t have time for this. This test is _vital._ I _cannot_ miss it.” The man opens his mouth to argue again but Charles cuts him off. “You owe it to me. You hit me with your motorcycle.”

The man glares at him before striding over and slapping a helmet in Charles’s hands. “Get on,” he growls as he swings a leg over the motorcycle seat.

Charles can’t muster the coordination to strap the helmet under his chin so he lets the straps dangle as he clambers up to sit behind the man. “Thank you _so_ much.” The world won’t stop swinging back and forth so he leans heavily against the man’s back, wrapping his arms tightly around his chest.

The man quirks an eyebrow.

“Just a bit woozy. Carry on.”

“Just a bit _woozy?_ Are you—”

“Just _go!_ ”

They speed through the streets, the buildings tilting and swirling around Charles as the man follows the directions Charles manages to dredge up from the depths of his muddled mind. The man is frowning nonstop and Charles feels increasingly awkward. And increasingly dizzy, what with the donuts the man keeps doing. At least Charles thinks the man’s doing donuts.

“So…” Charles says and the man startles. “What’s your name?” Charles asks, trying to make small talk and ignoring the small lights popping around the edges of his vision.

“Uh, Erik. Lehnsherr. Erik Lehnsherr.”

“Charles Xavier. A pleasure to meet you, Erik.” He grins dopily and pats Erik’s shoulder.

“Really. A pleasure?”

Charles stumbles over his words. “’Course ‘tis.” He finally pushes the words off his tongue and into the air. “Love meeting new… can’t thinkuva word.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“People! Thasta word.”

“I’m taking you to the hospital.”

“No. Please don’t.” Charles tightens his hold on Erik as his head spins. “Stop,” he whispers at the lights flashing in front of him. He presses his face into Erik’s back, hoping that if he closes his eyes for a minute, just a minute, they’ll go away. He has got a rather important test after all. It’d be incredibly difficult to focus with lights going off like flashbulbs in his periphery.

 

********* 

 

When Charles wakes up, the lights still haven’t gone away and there’s a dull pain in his chest. He groans and rolls his head away from the light, and to his surprise the light doesn’t follow him.

“Oh. You’re awake.”

Charles cracks his eyelids so only the absolute minimum amount of light pierces his corneas. “I’m afraid so.” He squints at the figure standing in his room. “Would you be so kind as to turn off the lights?”

“Oh. Uh. Sure. Okay.” The lights shut off and Charles can open his eyes completely without being assaulted by imagery.

It takes a bit longer than usual for his eyes to adjust enough to determine the figure in the room is Erik.

“Am I in the hospital?”

“Yeah. I’m truly sorry.”

“What time is it?”

“Uh. Eight-thirty.”

“P.M.?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s my diagnosis?”

“You have a pretty bad concussion, a fractured rib, and stitches for your forehead.”

Charles closes his eyes and ponders this new bit of information. He brings a hand to his hairline and runs his fingers lightly over the now-sewn gash.

“Listen, I’m so sorry.”

Charles grimaces. “It’s fine.”

“What? No, it’s not _fine._ ”

“Yeah, you’re right. It’s _not_ fine. But I’m really tired of hearing you say ‘I’m sorry’ over and over.”

Erik crosses his arms over his chest and returns to his default expression; frowning. “Your emergency contact isn’t answering their phone,” he accuses.

Charles chuckles. “I imagine she’s off modeling in some exotic place with no reception.” That and Raven isn’t speaking to him right now.

“Who should we call then?”

Charles frowns and rifles through a mental list of acquaintances. After coming up with nobody but one-night stands, he simply replies, “I’ll be fine on my own.”

Erik’s brow furrows in what might be concern, a foreign emotion for his features. “No family?”

“I doubt my family would be any help as most of them are either dead or drunkards.”

“Friends?”

Charles laughs. “I don’t have time for friends.”

Erik stares at him for a moment before stalking to the corner and dragging a chair over to Charles’s bed.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m staying here with you.”

“What? No! You don’t need to. I’ll be fine. Really.”

“You have no one else. I’m not going to leave you alone in the hospital. Especially when it’s my fault you’re here in the first place.”

“No. You can’t.”

“I can.”

Charles scrubs a hand over his face and sighs. He doesn’t appreciate people who are more stubborn than himself.

“Fine,” he groans. Erik smirks. “But you can’t stay overnight.”

Erik glances at his watch as though he had forgotten how late it was. “Oh. Right.”

Now it’s Charles’s turn to smirk as Erik unfolds his legs from under the chair.

“Goodnight, Charles.”

“Goodnight.”

 

*********

 

This time Charles wakes to the scent of coffee. He groans and props himself up on his elbows, blinking blearily around his room.

“Good morning,” Erik says from the same chair he was in last night. He rummages in a paper bag resting against his leg and pulls out a cinnamon roll. “I brought this for you.”

Charles shuffles up the bed so he can lean against the wall and takes the roll. “Thank you.” He sinks his teeth into the pastry and sighs. It’s still warm. “This is fantastic,” Charles says as he scarfs down the rest of the roll.

“It’s no trouble,” Erik says with a small smile.

Charles adjusts his pillows so he can lean against the wall more comfortably and his gaze lands on a coffee cup sitting on the table next to his bed. “Is that for me?”

“Oh, yeah.” Erik grabs a handful of sugar and cream packets from the bag. “I wasn’t sure what you’d like so I just brought these.”

As Charles eagerly stirs cream and sugar into his coffee, a nurse enters the room. “Is that coffee?” she demands. “You can’t have coffee.”

Charles tightens his grip on the cup. “I can’t have _coffee?_ ”

“No, sorry. No caffeine at all, in fact.” She whisks the cup and packets out of his hands and Charles can’t keep a small whimper from escaping his lips. “It’s not good for your head. You really should abstain from too much mental activity as well.”

“What do you mean by mental activity?”

“No school, work, TV, phones, videogames, reading. Anything along those lines.”

Charles gapes up at her.

She attempts a comforting smile. “I’ll bring you some water, okay?”

The second she exits the room Charles whips his head around to face Erik and the room starts spinning. “This is your fault,” Charles moans as he clutches his head. He had been planning on yelling, or at least accusing more forcefully, but that one quick turn had blasted those options out the window.

“I _know,_ Charles. I’m sorry, I really am.” Erik leans forward and his hands nervously flutter over Charles’s forehead, pushing a clump of sweat-damp hair off his face and carefully avoiding the stitches. “Are you all right? Can I get you something?”

“No, I think it’s stopping,” Charles pants. He shakily brings his hands down from where they were cradling his head. No more sudden movement, Charles scolds himself. He turns back to Erik. “Don’t you have work or something?”

“I got time off.”

“You really didn’t need to do that.”

“Well, I did. You’re stuck with me.”

Charles chuckles drily. “Stuck with the person who’s responsible for this bloody mess.”

Erik frowns down at his lap.

They sit in awkward silence until the nurse comes back and sets a jug of water on the side table. She’s accompanied by a doctor. “Good morning, Charles. I’m Dr. McCoy,” he says warmly.

“’Morning.”

Dr. McCoy smiles. “You are all set to go home now. We just have a few things to go over.” He hands over a bottle of pills. “These are painkillers for your rib. The dosage is written on the side. For the next two days, whenever you’re awake, put an icepack on your rib for twenty minutes every hour…”

As the doctor prattles on, Charles finds it difficult to focus on the instructions. He glances over at Erik, who is paying close attention to every word the doctor says, a thoughtful frown on his face. Charles turns back as Dr. McCoy finishes up.

“Remember, as little mental stimulation as possible for the next week. I recommend that you don’t go to school or work at all.”

Charles frowns. “Alright,” he says doubtfully.

“Well!” Dr. McCoy clasps his hands together. “That’s everything! Your clothes are right here”—he gestures to a pile at the foot of the bed—“and once you’re changed you’re free to go.”

“Thank you.”

The nurse gives a little wave as the pair exits the room.

Charles groans into his hands. “No mental stimulation for a _week!_ What am I going to _do?_ ”

Erik coughs. “Maybe I could visit you.” he suggests tentatively. “If you want me to?”

Charles jerks his head up and winces at the sharp stab of pain. “ _Dammit._ ” Erik moves forward but Charles waves him away. “No, no. I’m fine.” He squeezes his eyes shut and when he opens them again Erik is staring at him intently. “Were you serious?” Charles asks. “You’ll visit me?”

Erik blushes. “I-I could. If you’re okay with it?”

Charles ponders this. Ponders the man who gave him a concussion and a fractured rib. He _is_ quite good-looking. “Alright,” he sighs.

 “Really?”

“You’re gonna have to drive me home anyways, so you’ll already know where I live.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Now get out. I need to change.”

Erik straightens up, clutching his coffee in one hand and the paper bag in the other. “I’ll wait outside.”

Charles swings his legs over the side of the bed, but not too quickly. He’s learned his lesson in that area. His chest aches a little as he tugs the hospital gown over his head but otherwise he feels fine. Except for the wooziness, which he dutifully ignores. He pulls on his clothes and shoes and grabs his binder and book bag and pushes the door open. “Let’s go.”

 

*********

 

“Shouldn’t we take the elevator?”

“Nonsense. I’m only on the third floor.”

“You have fractured ribs and a concussion, Charles.”

Charles ignores Erik and marches up the stairs. He only manages one flight before he caves.

“Let’s take the elevator,” he pants, clutching at the pain in his side. Is it too soon to take another painkiller?

Erik rolls his eyes and pushes the elevator button. Charles stumbles through the doors as soon as they open, almost trampling a little old lady. “Sorry!” Charles calls after her as Erik catches his elbow.

“Do you ever _not_ push yourself?” Erik mutters as he pulls Charles back upright.

Charles scoffs. “You can _only_ get places in life by pushing yourself. Otherwise you go nowhere.”

Erik frowns and jabs the level three button. “You’ll burn out by the time you’re thirty.”

“I _am_ thirty,” Charles says indignantly as he props himself up against the wall.

Erik steps back and stares at him. Charles glares back. “I could have _sworn_ you were still in your mid-twenties. At the _most_.”

Charles huffs and strides out the doors, which have conveniently chosen this moment to open. Erik scrambles out after him, dragging Charles’s book bag. “Hey! Wait! I’m sorry!”

Charles stops halfway down the hall and folds his arms, waiting for Erik to catch up. “Give me my bag,” he says, thrusting his hand out.

Erik silently obeys and watches Charles rummage around, picking through wadded up papers, pens, books, and… “Are those _tea packets?_ ”

“Yes.” Charles finally resurfaces, clutching a key ring in his fist. He fits it into the door and pushes it open. “Welcome to my humble abode,” he says, sarcasm dripping.

Charles watches as Erik takes in the room and his frown deepens. “You _live_ in this mess?”

“Shut up,” Charles says as he starts clearing a path through the debris, kicking take-out boxes and books to the side. “I’ve been too busy to clean.”

Erik follows, still staring around the room wide-eyed. He tentatively grabs a half-full cup from a bookshelf and peeks inside. “Charles, I think there’s a swamp in this cup.”

“Don’t be overdramatic.” Charles snatches the cup out of Erik’s hand and gags. “Oh, _god_.” He manages to rush to the kitchen and dump it in the sink before a wave of nausea hits.

Erik is immediately at his side. “You should probably lie down. I’ll take care of this,” he says as he firmly grips Charles’s shoulder and pulls him up from where he was slumped against the counter.

“No, no. You should go home and… I dunno. Do whatever. I’m going to bed.”

Erik scans his face and reluctantly lets Charles go. “Alright. But I’m coming back tomorrow.”

“You really don’t have to.”

“Yes, I do.”

“ _God._ Fine.”

Erik smiles. “See you tomorrow.”

 

*********

 

“Charles? There’s an Erik Lehnsherr here to see you.”

Charles looks up from the heap of junk food he managed to unearth from his kitchen. He hops over an empty garbage bag and jabs the intercom button. “Send him up.” Cautiously, he picks his way back into the kitchen and sits down in the center of the chaos. Charles could’ve sworn he was nearly out of food, but it turns out he was only out of food that you can eat and not get diabetes. He actually had quite a stash of foods that would gunk up his metabolism for days.

He’s digging into a bag of chili cheese Fritos when Erik knocks. Charles scrambles to his feet and slips and falls back down with a smack, thankfully not on his ribs. He swears loudly and yanks off his socks so as to avoid other falls and hurries to the door, much more carefully this time. He fumbles with the lock for a minute while he hastily licks chili powder off his fingers and swings the door open to find Erik staring at him.

Charles quickly takes his fingers out of his mouth and wipes them on the leg of his pajamas, realizing much too late that he’s a mess. Oh well. Erik’s certainly seen him in worse situations.

Erik shakes his head slightly and looks up to meet Charles’s eyes. Had he been staring at Charles’s mouth? “Hello.” Erik shifts his arms a bit and Charles notices another paper bag clutched in his hands. “I brought muffins.”

“Oh! Thank you. Come in.” Once Erik has walked in and has his back to him, Charles frantically tries to tame his hair and adjust his pajamas. _How_ had he acknowledged that Erik was coming over and not thought to put on anything decent? He sighs and turns back to Erik. It’s too late to do anything about it now, and if Charles is honest with himself, he’d much rather look like crap than put the effort into changing his clothes.

“You can just put the bag down on the counter over there.” Charles gestures vaguely towards the kitchen. “And I suppose you'll be wanting a tour of the apartment?”

“Sure.” Erik drops the muffins off in the kitchen, thankfully not saying anything about the mess, although he does cast a somewhat worried glance from the pile of junk food on the floor to the stitches on Charles’s forehead.

“Well,” Charles says awkwardly. “You’ve already seen the kitchen. And you came in through the living room. That’s the bathroom”—Charles points dumbly—“and that’s my bedroom.” He shuffles his feet belatedly on the tiled floor, realizing that he hadn’t moved once while giving the tour. He chuckles nervously. “You probably don’t want to go in there. It’s even more of a mess than the kitchen.”

Erik raises his eyebrows. “I find that difficult to believe.”

“I was trying to clean it out,” Charles says, defending himself. “It just got a little out of hand.”

“I could help with that.”

“Really?” Charles’s eyes widen. Help would be _fantastic,_ his kitchen’s an absolute disaster. “You don’t have to,” he says while begging for help internally.

“I came over here to help out, so that’s what I’ll do.” Erik looks down at the mountain of junk and frowns. “Is there a system here, or…?”

Charles peers around Erik and winces. “Uh, no. I was planning on organizing but I got… distracted.”

Erik snorts and toes at the pile of empty containers. “I can see that. Did you eat all this _today?_ ”

“Oh, I hope not.”

Erik actually laughs at that and Charles can’t help but smile as well.

Erik folds to his knees and starts shifting through the wreckage. “Everything that is no longer edible we’ll put in _here_ ”—he holds up the garbage bag Charles had gotten out earlier—“and we’ll put the crackers and chips and cereal _here_ ”—he points to one of the counters—“and desserts _here_ ,” he points at another counter and looks up at Charles. “Come on. I’m not doing this all myself.”

Charles sits down and starts sifting through the debris, impressed at Erik’s delegation and organizational prowess. When he got hit by the motorcycle, he never would have thought it would lead to him having somebody help clean his apartment.

“So,” Charles says after ten minutes of silently sorting through food. “What do you do?”

“What do I do?”

“You know. What’s your occupation? Where do you work?”

Erik nods towards the bag of muffins still sitting on the counter. “Family-owned bakery.”

“Really?” Charles clambers to his feet and snatches the bag, examining the little logo he’s only just noticed. “‘Eisenhardt Bakery,’” Charles reads. “Eisenhardt?”

“It’s my mother’s name. It was her side of the family that founded the place.”

“What do you do there? Do you bake?”

“I bake. I made those muffins. And the cinnamon roll I brought you the other day.”

“That’s _marvelous._ You’re quite the chef.”

Erik waves off the compliment and turns back to sorting. Charles remains standing and stretches a bit. Sitting hunched over for even a few minutes has aggravated his ribs.

“There,” Erik says as he stands up next to Charles. “Finished. Now we need to put everything away.”

The once-towering pile of food has been chipped away to a slightly more reasonably-sized heap. “You are a miracle worker, Erik.” Charles turns to smile at Erik but finds him frowning at the sink. “What is it?”

“Charles, your sink is _disgusting_.”

“Is it really?” Charles leans forwards and looks down into it. “I didn’t think it was that bad.”

“Are you _blind?_ Can you not see those stains?”

Charles looks closer and frowns. “Those are stains?”

Erik groans. “Where are your cleaning things?”

“In that cabinet. No, that one.”

Erik growls and heaves as many cleaning supplies as he can onto the counter and starts dumping soap into the sink. “Put away your food,” he snarls. “I’m cleaning this up.”

“Thank you _so_ much, Erik. What would I do without you?”

“You’d probably wallow away in filth, but at least you wouldn’t have a concussion or busted ribs.”

“True.” Charles starts lifting boxes from the counter an armful at a time and shoving them into cabinets and cupboards. Once everything’s put away (not necessarily in the right place) Charles leans heavily against the counter and watches Erik scrub the sink with vengeance. His ribs have started to ache more severely. He vaguely remembers the doctor saying something about taking it easy but he hadn’t thought cleaning the kitchen would be that difficult. Charles takes a deep breath to soothe the panic starting to curl through his mind and winces at the stab of pain. Bad idea. No more deep breaths.

Erik turns around at the hitch in Charles’s breath. “Are you alright?” he asks, eyebrows furrowed.

“Yes,” Charles instantly replies. He clutches his side as he tries to breathe normally again. “No,” he mutters. “You know what? I’m actually not okay.”

Erik yanks off his gloves and moves to Charles’s side, guilt clouding his features. “You should lie down.”

“Yeah,” Charles mumbles as he trips out of the kitchen and towards his room, Erik trailing behind him like a lost puppy.

“Do you need anything?” He stops in the doorway and watches as Charles cautiously lowers himself onto his bed.

“No,” Charles says as he grabs his painkillers off the bedside table. “You can go home.” He swallows a pill dry and presses his face into the pillow, trying to find a position that made his ribs throb a little less.

Erik quietly shuts the door.

 

*********

 

Charles wakes in the same position he fell asleep in; legs sprawled across the bed and arms stretched above his head. Both arms are asleep. He sits up with a groan and checks the times while he waits for his limbs to regain consciousness. Three o’clock. He slides off the bed, looking forward to a glass of water to ward off his headache. Only when he places a hand on his doorknob does he hear the sounds of someone walking around the apartment.

He cracks the door and peers out. “Erik? Are you still here?”

“I’m in the living room,” Erik calls.

“Erik, I told you you didn’t have to stay,” he grouses as he opens the door wider and shields his eyes. The bloody idiot opened the curtains. He stumbles into the living room and yanks them shut, squinting so he doesn’t sear his corneas. He turns back to face the room and stops dead.

The living room is the cleanest it’s been since Charles first moved in. All his books are back on the bookshelf, all the paraphernalia has been swept off the parallel surfaces and put into drawers, all his tea mugs have been washed and put away, all his papers have been stacked into a neat pile and placed on the coffee table. From what Charles can see, the kitchen is just as clean as the living room, maybe even more so.

“What the _hell,_ Erik?” Charles turns to face the man lounging in an armchair and reading a book, content as can be. “You don’t need to _do_ this. _Why_ are you doing this?”

Erik snaps the book shut. “Look, Charles. I really feel terrible about running you over.”

“Which you _should_ —”

Erik holds up a hand. “Let me finish. As I was saying, I feel terrible and I really want to make it up to you. I can’t afford to cover your medical bill—and I thank you for being okay with that—but I still want to help you in some way. If it means that I can get into your good graces, I’m _happy_ to clean your house, bring you food, act as your nurse, whatever.”

“Why would you want to get into my good graces?” Charles cuts in. “You didn’t even know me before you hit me with your bike.”

Charles is surprised to see Erik blush. “Well, uh,” Erik says, suddenly flustered. “I was wondering if maybe you wanted to… to go on a date?”

Charles stares at him. “Are you _serious?_ You want to go on a date?”

Erik turns even redder. “Well, if you don’t want to that’s okay!” he says hastily. “I’m not going to pressure you or anything.”

“Okay, stop. Let me get this straight,” Charles holds up his hands. “After hitting me with your motorcycle, you looked down at the bloody, practically incoherent guy lying on the ground and thought _‘That man looks like someone I’d like to date’?_ ”

“Well, it happened more the first time you woke up in the hospital,” Erik mumbles. “But you were attractive the whole time.”

Charles looks down at his bare feet, his oversized pajama bottoms and ratty blue t-shirt and smiles to himself. Still got it, he thinks. He looks back up at Erik, who is starting to inch slowly towards the door. “Okay.” Charles grins at Erik. “I’ll go on a date with you.”

“Really?” Erik looks stunned. “You will? You don’t think I’m creepy or anything?”

Charles laughs. “You better stop talking or I may have second thoughts.”

Erik steps closer, regaining his previous confidence and smiling a predatory grin. “Well, then. I’ll see you tonight at six?”

“Six it is.”

Erik smiles and backs out the door with a cheeky wave, leaving Charles standing in the center of the room, a ridiculous grin spreading across his face.

Maybe I should try to get in more car accidents, he thinks giddily as he turns back to his room to prepare for his date.


End file.
